


You're a moron, and I love you.

by millygal



Series: My Prompts Table [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Broken Dean Winchester, Heartache, Heartbreak, M/M, Memories, Post-Finale, Sadness, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 21:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11112933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: "This belongs to you."





	You're a moron, and I love you.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote myself my own prompts table and this is the second one done by me - As he flicked through the letters, a small, handwritten envelope caught his attention and his heart began to thump. - Bring TISSUES!!! Thank you to jj1564 for the beta, we've been playing Fic Ping-Pong today XD Also *BIG BUG HUGS BB* Hope you feel better soon <3 and to stir_of_echoes for the read through and heartbroken comments afterwards ♥

Dean’s spent forty-eight hours sitting silent as the grave on Bobby’s sagging couch cushions, allowing the imprint of his behind to become one with the ratty material. He’s drunk every meal for two days and winced each time the old Hunter tried opening the curtains even a crack, trying to shed a little light on the gloom in the room.

Resolutely refusing to allow his eyelids to droop - fighting consciousness tooth and nail - for fear of Sam’s final bow being played on a loop behind them.

Dean’s allowed night and day to bleed into one long vigil for his fallen brother, and doesn’t much care that the world is still turning outside Bobby’s window.

On the third day Bobby shuffles about the house, avoiding eye contact with the heartsick man moulded to his battered old couch, wishing he could take a cloth and wash the pain away like dried blood. If not the pain then the look on Dean’s face, because it’s harrowing. The boy’s features are set in a macabre tableau of grief; never changing, fading or softening.

Thus far Bobby’s _wisely_ chosen not to pester or poke, but the older man is reaching the limit of his endurance, and he’s about ready to start spraying Dean with air freshener, if only to try and stave off the stench that’s permeating his living room. “Boy, if you don’t get up and at least shower Im’ma dowse you with a hose. Fuck the carpet and wallpaper.”

The sharpness in Bobby’s voice forces an instinctual reaction from Dean who finds himself standing and wandering dazedly towards the stairs. “M’sorry.”

Dean’s lacklustre response drags Bobby over the edge and he steps up behind his surrogate son before slapping him _hard_ upside the head with an open palm. “Don’t be _sorry_ , be **alive**. Sam - Sammy - he - “

Dean’s vision clears for the first time in days and he _sees_ the pain etched into the edges of Bobby’s eyes. Extra lines that weren’t there three days ago. Telling the tale of a man who’s lost a member of his family and had no one to rely on because Dean checked out, chose to leave him to grieve alone. “Shit, Bobby - I - I’m **sorry**.”

Wrapping his arms around Bobby’s shoulders, Dean’s muscles protest, screech at him that three days of mourning have left him stiff, creaky and almost without memory of physical comfort.

Bobby allows Dean to cleave to him for a few minutes before his need for fresh air kicks in.

Pulling away, nodding at Dean, Bobby smirks and points towards the stairs. “Shower, please, before I have to get exterminators in.”

Dean knows the sarcasm is a poorly constructed cover for the pain Bobby’s feeling but he accepts the facade with good grace and an equally asinine comment. “When was the last time you washed that fuckin’ hat, old man? And I need a shower! Ha!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Whilst Dean cleans up Bobby sits quietly at his moth eaten old desk, wondering if he should do as he was asked or if that will simply bring the boy more hurt. “What do I do, Sammy?”

Not expecting an answer but desperately wishing for one, Bobby pulls out a thick manilla envelope and rests it gently on his lap. “Will he thank me? Doubt it, but, I just got him movin’ again. Don’t want him turning back into an inanimate object.”

Again, no answer, but a gentle breeze from an open window makes his curtains rustle and Bobby knows he can’t _keep_ this from Dean. Sam expressly asked him to do this thing, to make sure Dean _knew_. “Fine, fine, I’ll give it to him, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

~~~~~~~~~

Dean steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped low across his hips, and regards _their_ room. His room now, he supposes. Although he’s not planning on returning anytime soon, but for all intents and purposes it _is_ now **his**.

Bobby always kept the attic room free from the detritus clogging up the rest of the house, kept it ready for Sam and Dean to use on those hunts that required overnight stays, or week long study sessions.

There are signs of a Winchester infestation festooned all about the floor, cupboards and bed. Little reminders that only days ago, Sam was still trying to find a logical solution to their Lucifer problem whilst cussing Dean out for keep jogging his arm every time he jotted a note in his journal.

Dean stands dead centre in the room and turns slowly, scanning his surroundings for anything he might like to take with him when he leaves, and trying to identify the burning ache in his chest.

When he’s finally reconnected to his emotions, he’ll realise it’s an avalanche of bittersweet memories trying to force their way to the front of his mind, but for now it just feels like someone’s punched him in the sternum with a closed fist the size of a chevy truck.

Hanging loosely from the back of a chair is Sam’s tatty, holey green plaid overshirt. The one that Dean continuously took the piss out of him for, explaining that once a shirt becomes more hole than material it’s time to let it die a peaceful death.

Beneath the chair are Sam’s slippers. What Hunter wears _slippers_?

Dean remembers the first time his brother slip slided his way into Bobby’s kitchen wearing those fluffy monstrosities on his feet, and the resulting _hours_ of joy Bobby and he got from ripping the shit out of Sam for his **delicate** little toes needing all the creature comforts.

Sighing and shaking his head, trying to keep the tears at bay, Dean wipes a still damp hand across his face and growls.

He will _not_ cry. He **can’t** cry. If he starts he may never stop and then Bobby will have to come in and scrape his sorry sobbing ass off the floor.

Snatching his jeans from the bed, Dean drops the towel and shoves his legs into them and refuses to acknowledge the sinking sense of finality in his actions.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bobby waits patiently for Dean to re-emerge, clutching the envelope in his hands, sitting quietly in the spot vacated half an hour ago.

As Dean’s footfalls echo down the stairs, Bobby grits his teeth and hopes this isn’t a mistake that will cause his _boy_ any more pain.

Dean’s booted feet come into view first and Bobby sucks in a lungful of air, hoping to calm his already frayed nerves. “Dean, come here, would you?”

Dean’s not firing on all cylinders still, but he recognises Bobby’s _resigned_ voice and wonders what the old man has to say now. What more can he say? “Yeah, Bobby, what?”

Standing in front of Bobby, Dean notes the thick envelope being practically folded in half in his hands. “What’s that?”

“Sit.”

“I should be ge - “

“ _Sit_.”

Dean doesn’t argue, just perches on the edge of Bobby’s coffee table and waits for whatever’s got his mentor’s panties in a bunch.

Bobby makes a concerted effort to unclasp his fingers and smooth out the edges of the envelope before offering it to Dean. “This belongs to you.”

“Why are you givin’ me things to read? I can barely see straight.”

“It’s - it’s from Sam.”

Dean’s mouth forms an ‘O’ of surprise and he finds it hard to breathe, but his hands reach out and snatch the envelope all the same.

Bobby stands and dusts himself down, smoothing the ever-present creases in his shirt, then pats Dean on the shoulder and walks away, shutting the doors to the hallway. “I’ll leave you to it.”

~~~~~~~~

Spilling from the envelope are scads of paper - some yellowing, wrinkled and tatty, others crisp and clean with one simple fold in their centre - but all of them are familiar.

They bear Sam’s overly precise cursive and Dean’s less than neat scribbles.

Years and years of handwritten notes detailing things as simple as what they needed to pick up at the local Gas’n’Sip, to much longer letters explaining what Sam was doing whilst in Stanford and separated from his brother by miles and a father who held a grudge.

Dean knows _what_ he’s seeing but he doesn’t understand **why** he’s seeing it.

Did Sam keep it all? Squirrel these things away in his duffel when Dean wasn’t looking?

Shopping lists and reminders to pick up more bullets. Heart felt messages speaking of loss and sorrow and missing each other.

 _Why_?

In amongst the carefully preserved pieces of paper are _so_ **many** photos; of them, of their parents. Of Bobby passed out drunk on the couch and Castiel smiling awkwardly at the camera. Of Ellen and Jo and Ash laughing hard enough for them all to have double chins and twinkles in their eyes.

As Dean paws through each small commemoration of his and Sam’s life together, he sees spots of dampness on the back of his hand and realises he’s crying. Has been crying for the last ten minutes.

The tears have come unbidden and now he doesn’t know how to stop them, how to stem the swell of emotion threatening to drown him. “Sammy.”

Swiping angrily at his eyes, Dean sweeps the pile of memories from his lap and stands, throws himself across the room and away from the many reminders of what he’s lost. Of who he’s lost.

The fury tastes delicious in Dean’s mouth, it allows him to bite back the sorrow and hurt. “What the _fuck_ did you do that for? Sammy, did you **really** think I’d enjoy being shown the faces of those I can’t touch any more?”

Dean’s raging at thin air and he knows he won’t get an answer, but ragging on his brother makes it easier to take the pounding heartbeat and roiling stomach.

Striding back across the room, Dean snatches up fistfulls of paper and is about to start viciously shredding them when he notices a freshly written envelope tucked behind a ratty post-it-note.

Dropping what he’s holding, Dean leans down and plucks it from the floor.

Running the pad of his thumb over Sam’s beautiful penmanship, feeling the indentations on the paper, Dean hangs his head and allows the anger to dissipate, leaving behind a hollow, sucking void in the middle of his chest.

Sliding the edge of his nail along the lip of the envelope, Dean carefully pulls the letter out and stares at it; eyebrows knitted together, tears glistening on his cheeks, teeth biting into his bottom lip to try and stop the sounds of animalistic pain that are threatening to burst from his throat.

Dean doesn’t know how he got there but he’s curled on the floor, clutching Sam’s letter to his chest, sobbing hard enough to make his head spin, and he’s only just aware when Bobby drops down next to him, wrapping him in strong steady arms.

Bobby allows Dean to cry himself out and tries to ignore the wetness gathering on his own eyelashes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Lisa supports Dean, shoulders his weight from the doorstep, Ben re-folds the letter in his hands and tucks it in his back pocket.


End file.
